


songbird

by crownsandbirds



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballroom Dancing, Childhood Trauma, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, Love at First Sight, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Murder, Operas, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Serious Injuries, Singing, Trauma, akira wears dresses, chandelier crashing, i wanted to give yusuke money, the inherent romance of music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: Goro is human. As monstrous as he may look, as devilish as he may behave, as dark as the steps behind him are, he is a man, through and through, and a man desires salvation.The Phantom of the Operayearns.Oh, and howbeautifulKurusu Akira is.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 84
Collections: Goro Big Bang 2020





	1. first act

Goro is trying to capture a single glimpse of Akira. 

That was all he intended when he left his underground lair earlier this morning. It is only on specific weekdays that he indulges on the utmost, grandiose pleasure of teaching his angel how to raise his voice to new, divine heights. Most often than not, Akira is chained to his position as a ballet dancer, and Goro has yet to manage to convince him to take his chances and quit such an undeserving role in order to move to his true spot in the sharp, undying light of the center of the stage. Akira is young, and tentative, and his voice shivers where it could have enough power to drive a man insane, and, try as Goro might to coax the intensity out of him, it takes skill, and patience. It is no bother at all – it is, in fact, the only time in Goro's life where he feels something outside of pure misery. They spend hours together, Goro behind the flimsy glass barrier of Akira's body-length mirror, and Akira in the middle of his small dressing room, cradled in a white angel-like robe, head tilted back and eyes blissfully closed as he allows his unseen master to make him sing. 

In lesser days, where Akira is stuck with his dance slippers and his beige corsets and the shift of his feet and movement of his arms, Goro goes to the high ceiling metal bars, crosses his legs, and  _ watches _ . 

It can be hard to find him amongst the sea of other dancers – but there's a feline grace to his entire existence, a sensuality to his every move, and he has a silver hook trapped on the chambers of Goro's weak, love-struck heart. Every idle smirk, every shift of those intelligent grey eyes is a painful tug, drawing blood to pool at Goro's feet, evidence of his cursed passion. How can a demon think himself worthy of loving an angel; and, flipping the coin, how could a demon not fall in love with an angel, when it sees proof of heaven in a single pair of eyes, in the curve of a wrist, in a glimpse of teeth behind a smile? 

Goro is human. As monstrous as he may look, as devilish as he may behave, as dark as the steps behind him are, he is a man, through and through, and a man desires salvation. 

The Phantom of the Opera  _ yearns _ . 

Oh, and how  _ beautiful _ Kurusu Akira is. Endlessly beautiful, lines of his gorgeous face drawn with such attention to every breathtaking detail that Goro is nearly led to believe there exists something as a God, and this God took the lightest, most precious of brushes and traced Akira's existence to near-painful perfection. He is so beautiful his salvation nears damnation. 

It is a heresy that the world leaves him in shadows, to the point where he is comfortable lurking there. Goro holds particular distaste for those who surround him, all of them with no exceptions established – and when he drops the scenario on top of the prima donna's disgusting presentation, it is with satisfaction easy and light on his heart. He should have done this earlier, he muses, much earlier. How much of an oversight on his part it was, to let a washed-out diva, seasons beyond her prime, take the center of the stage in his theater. He nearly kills her, but doesn't; this he will regret later, but for now he congratulates himself on a rare display of mercy. Let the mediocre live, he thinks, and be struck by the wonder of Akira's existence and voice. Never let it be said that the Phantom of the Opera Populaire isn't merciful. 

Still, it creates havoc. Artists are a dramatic bunch, regardless of which type of art they make, and desperate screams of fears tear through the heavy air of rehearsal.

"Iwai, chief of the flies, he's responsible for this. Iwai, for God's  _ sake _ , man, what's going on up there?"

The silent firm workman doesn't seem ruffled in the slightest. "Monsieur, don't look at me. As God's my witness, I was not at my post." He chuckles darkly around his unlit cigarette. "Must've been that damn ghost."

_ He's there _ , wails a small girl who constantly trails after Akira as if he holds the answers to life itself, and who Goro has found to be called Yoshizawa,  _ the Phantom of the Opera! _

Deliberately, silent and unseen amidst the chaos, Goro lowers himself down, just enough so that he can watch Akira's reaction to his newest stunt - it had been a while since the last time he pulled one of such surprises. But it  _ was _ a gift, warped as it may be. 

Akira is smiling to himself, grin tucked away in his palm, only visible through the creases on the corners of his beautiful eyes, with all the delight of a secret lover. 

Goro feels as if he's been killed and brought back to life. 

It is then that Madame Niijima speaks up, one hand tight around the head of her cane, another holding the note Goro forwarded through her a handful of hours ago, when she stopped by his hideout to give him food to last through the week. 

"I have a message, messieurs," she says, calmly. "From the Opera Ghost."

Akira's pleased little smile pulls wider, although Goro is the only one who captures it, like a wild, rare, precious bird landing atop a waiting palm. His face is soft with the warmth of recognition, as if he's whispering,  _ there you are _ . 

It takes all of Goro's self-control to not leap down on the stage, snatch Akira by the waist and steal him away. 

"Oh, good heavens, you're all obsessed!" the new manager protests, and Goro's smirk is an ugly, mean thing:  _ as they should be _ . _ Not all theater fairy tales can cause actual harm. _

"He merely welcomes you to his opera house," Niijima continues, unfettered. "Commands that you continue to leave box 5 empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is due."

The mocking laughter was to be expected - it still makes Goro's upper lip curl in distaste. They will pay for this insolence, he muses. 

"Monsieur Lefevre paid him 20 thousand francs per month. Perhaps you could afford more," Niijima says, "with the Viconte as your new patron."

"Madame, I had intended to make that announcement myself..." one of the directors, Firmin, apparently, says regretfully. 

"Will the Viconte be at the performance?"

"Yes, in our box."

"Who's the understudy for the leading part?" the other, Andre, questions. 

"There is no  _ understudy _ , monsieur, the production is new!"

"Kurusu Akira could sing it, sir," Yoshizawa Kasumi offers. 

"The ballet boy," comes the answer with some high level of disdain. 

"He has been taking lessons, sir, from a great teacher!" Yoshizawa protests. 

"Oh, from whom?"

Akira's smile has turned into a giggle, and people around him seem offended by his mirth in such stressful circumstances. "I don't know, sir," he answers, sounding sly, less like the true lack of knowledge and more like he's deliberately keeping it a secret from them. It's so charming that it strains at Goro's heart. 

"Not  _ you _ too - can you believe it? Full house and we have to cancel!"

"Let him sing, monsieur," Madame Niijima says, smiling curtly also. "He has been  _ well-taught _ ."

Two bars are sufficient for the start of the recognizable aria - and perhaps because he knows Goro to be there, perhaps because people are watching, Akira's voice comes down like a blessing upon all the spectators, enough to stun all doubts into silence, enough to capture the hearts of each and every one. 

A handful of verses is all it takes. The change happens quickly and efficiently. Goro has been displeased by the knowledge that the previous manager is stepping down and giving his place to two others ever since he learned about it from Madame Niijima - it is much more comfortable to let things remain as they were. He had quite a decent contract established with the first director: enough money to live appropriately, box 5 reserved for his usage, the perfect place from which to discreetly watch Akira in public performances and, alone, cradle the shards of his broken heart, ever longing. To be forced to remake the deal is a chore. He sent the necessary notes through Niijima, and waits impatiently for them to cave to his demands; still, with all the inconvenience of having to re-establish such an agreement, he is glad for their effectiveness in giving Akira the main role after they are exposed to the miraculous marvel of his voice. 

His  _ voice _ . 

On the opening night, that same day, it is a full house, much like the new managers mentioned. Goro dresses up for the occasion, as he often does when he's leaving the darkness of his home to teach Akira, even if he knows - and hopes - no one will see him. The mask is delicately put in place, the hard surface touching the still sensitive skin of his scars. The gloves are pulled on, and the cravat fixed in place. 

Eliza's aria in the third act of  _ Hannibal _ is not one of Goro's favorite songs, if only because of how gently adoring and groveling the lyrics are - however, Kurusu Akira is a love song in all its curves, rises and falls, and the notes dance out of his mouth like a revelation. 

Donned in the characteristic golden gown and in the laced corset that traces his waist, he's a masterpiece to see. Goro is taken, torn, heart stolen and kept in between Akira's perfect hands. 

When Akira sings, he sings with his chin tilted up, the long perfect column of his neck framed by jewels and the limelight, as he keeps his angelic music steady through the air, ever-rising and beautiful, and his eyes focused on box number 5, where Goro has his hands fisted on the fabric of his trousers, his mask covering half of his face, and tears running down his cheeks. 

Akira sings,  _ think of me, please say you’ll think of me, whatever is you choose to do _ , and Goro whispers  _ yes _ ,  _ yes _ ,  _ always,  _ unheard by anyone but himself, and Akira reaches for nothing in the air and rises  _ there will never be a day when I won’t think of you _ , and he's singing to him, for him alone, there is an entire wonderstruck crowd gazing at him with adoration but Akira's voice is for Goro. 

The Phantom weeps, sobs shivering through his form. 

His applause is lost amidst the crowd’s deafening noise, but still he claps - Akira is bowed too low to see, and Goro’s whispers of “bravo, bravo!” are unheard, as they should be. There will be time for appropriate praise later, well-earned and happily-given, when they are safe, when they are together and alone in the shadows Goro knows well. 

-

Monsieur Le Vicomte is a dreadful surprise. 

Goro heard Madame Niijima comment in passing, in one of her trips underneath the theater to provide him with living necessities, about the Opera Populaire's new patron: an eccentric man, known for his artistic genius, his beautiful features and his unusual behavior – and his frankly astounding fortune. Kitagawa Yusuke has no family, no wife or heir, and is said to spend most of his time painting, seeking his new muse, or indulging in various fine arts, generously supporting those who pique his interest. Goro paid little attention to it at the time; he was usually displeased by whatever changes occurred when it came to the Opera, unwilling to change the manner with which he'd led his life and those of the unknowing above him, but more funds meant more possibilities, and he was focused enough on Akira and his plans that it flew over his head. 

Kitagawa arrives trailed by the two managers and two nameless women, hiding behind their fans - and their drivel goes on behind him, but he has eyes solely for Akira, even when he dismisses the others stating that, "This is a visit I'd prefer to do unaccompanied."

As he silently watches the Viconte bow and press a lingering kiss to Akira's gloved hand, however, Goro realizes how innocently foolish his initial judgement was. 

There is little he can do outside of watching - hidden behind the two-way door of Akira's body-length mirror, he can only cross his arms, nails digging on his coat, and bite his lip hard enough to bruise. 

"I have been unable to look away from your angelic beauty ever since you parted your lips at the beginning of the first act," Kitagawa says, voice like dark velvet, deep and soothing. He straightens his back, but doesn't release Akira's hand, opting instead to continue breathing warmth on the uncovered skin of his wrist. He  _ is _ handsome, Goro admits, teeth gritted so hard it sends a dull ache up his jaw all the way up to his temples. Silky black hair falling over fine noble features, long eyelashes framing his intense eyes, clothes expensive and rich and befitting of his position. The undeniable fact of his beauty is all the more reason for Goro to despise him - for being able to show his face to the world, for being able to walk on sunlight, being able to touch an angel so easily. "Coming upon you is nothing short of a blessing."

Akira's cheeks are tinted with a lovely shade of pink, lips caught in an appreciative smile. "You are very kind, monsieur," he says, and has the audacity to sound  _ coy _ . "I am but a lowly artist."

Still wearing Eliza's golden corset, but with the heavy skirt removed and carried away by the costume department, his long thighs are in display when he steps forward, his white gown fluttering around his ankles. Goro's breath is stolen from his lungs, and, it appears, so is the Vicomte's – his dark eyes are wide, his mouth parted as Akira moves closer, allows Kitagawa's hand to slide up, touch his jaw with the lightest fingertips, and caress his cheek with his thumb with trembling adoration. Akira continues to smile, secretive, mischievously curious. 

It burns pure rage inside Goro's chest. 

He would kill Kitagawa right now, in this very second, would break the mirror to pieces and slash his throat and watch him bleed to death, would tear him apart with his very hands, rip his pulsating heart - but that would mean staining Akira's perfect divine form, even if accidentally, and not every boiling drop of Goro's anger can bring him to consider such an idea. Stunts and tricks are well and fine, gifts to bring forth amusement, but the more unsavory parts of his actions are something he prefers doing in the shadows. 

"You are the muse I've been seeking for as long as I've been alive," Kitagawa says, sounding like his entire soul is at Akira's feet. "Your singing was...miraculous. I have been struck by inspiration as if by lightning, unlike anything I've ever felt before. What you have is no mere gift, but magic." 

"You flatter me," Akira purrs, preening under the unrestrained attention. "You have a talent for wooing a man, monsieur." 

"Believe me, this is no seduction attempt - I'd never go to such basal lengths in front of such perfection. I would love to know you better, however; I must insist that you accompany me for supper. The ideas I have for paintings - ah, you'll shine! I'll capture your beauty for centuries to come! Come, you must change, and I must grab my hat!" Kitagawa declares, and presses one last fervent kiss to the back of Akira's hand before dashing out of the room. 

"Oh, but my Angel wouldn't approve..." Akira lifts his hand to his own mouth, and hides a slow smile, and that's when Goro's patience leaves him. 

"Insolent boy!" he snarls, loud as a tempest, "T-this slave of fashion! Basking in your glory! Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in  _ my _ triumph!"

Akira is brought to attention immediately, twirling to seek the source of the voice that has long been in his mind - his intelligent eyes dart to and fro every corner of the small space, as if like this he can capture what has always been away from his sight, if not from his hearing. "Angel, I hear," he says immediately, seemingly raptured, "you speak, I listen." 

Oh, this  _ voice _ . Soothing all the distortions in the world. This voice will be Goro's death. 

"Flattering child, you shall know me," he sings, fragile once more, touching the tips of his fingers to the glass, pushing so it reveals the hidden door, unable to help himself. "See why in shadows I hide. Look at your face in the mirror - I am there inside..."

Akira's eyes widen as they take in the sight. For a horrifying, silent moment, Goro is painfully terrified that he'll leave, that he'll turn his back and seek the much more pleasant company of the Viconte - but Akira takes a step forward, and another, going up the small stairs, and tilts his head back to gaze at Goro fully. 

"Finally," he whispers, and he sounds  _ taken _ , heavens help him, he sounds entranced, and Goro wants to fall to his knees and worship him. "I have been  _ yearning _ to see your face."

Goro takes his gloved hand, as if looking to erase other touches from the porcelain of his skin. "Dismiss your longing," he says, heartbeat choking him with how fast it is, desperately grateful for the barrier of his mask covering the destroyed half of his features, "there is a reason why I walk in shadows."

"You are so handsome," Akira says, enraptured, voice soft over the praise that appears to come as easily to him as that heart-shattering smile, and tears well up in Goro's eyes before he can even begin to comprehend the meaning of those words. He has never been called anything of the sort before, not since the incident with his mother, and he was merely a toddler when that came to happen - and he knows, rationally, Akira only says that because of the white mask covering half of his face, and because he cannot truly see the extent of the demonic mark Goro must carry, the scar of his destruction that tore apart the path of his life; but Goro is a man, deep down, a man with a heart and a soul that flutters for the smallest of Akira's movement, the tiniest of glances, and the light, tender pronunciation of  _ handsome _ referred to someone as himself, who has hid in darkness for most of his existence, touches something fragile inside him that he didn't know existed. "Those  _ eyes _ . Oh, for how long I've wanted to know the man who sings songs in my head. How should I call you?" 

It has been years since the last time anyone used Goro's name. It takes a second for it to come to his voice, the syllables sounding wrong and out of place. For so long he's been the Ghost, the Phantom, the freak of nature, the monster, the  _ angel _ . Akira seems to delight in it, however; he says, "Goro Akechi," as if it's the sip of a rich wine on top of his tongue.

When Goro takes Akira's hand in his, the barrier of their gloves does nothing to steal away the novelty of the touch, and he does away with the necessity for words in place of guiding the two of them deeper in the inner labyrinth of the theater, avoiding to look at Akira directly. So much he'd hoped to say, so often he'd pictured this first meeting face-to-face - and he's rendered silent by sheer wonder and the power of his love, nurtured for so long inside his heart in quiet secret and brought sharply to the light when confronted with the undeniable object of his affection. 

He pulls Akira into the darkness, feet certain on paths he has trailed many times before, and part of him expects his beloved to stumble, or lose his balance, or shiver in fear - but Akira tightens the hold around his hand, and walks faster, keeping pace easily. The confidence in his figure, strong and steady even under the delicate lace of his gown, sends a sting of adoration down Goro's spine. 

Akira starts humming softly the aria he sang earlier tonight. Goro wonders if this is going to kill him. 

“For one who often called me child, you are young yourself, monsieur," he comments, and Goro startles so badly he nearly trips. "How old are you?”

The question takes him aback enough that he ceases his forward movement and turns to stare in surprise at Akira. His mother left him nothing behind aside from terrible memories, a small, almost broken music box and his unusual red irises. People like Goro didn't perform such mundane celebrations as birthdays; they were a brand of casual happiness that was not allowed to him. It never even crossed his mind before that, as a person, he should have a birthday, he should have an age, evidence that he exists somewhere in the passing flow of time. 

Goro's cheeks burn with embarrassment. He wonders how many times this boy will manage to chip away at his carefully constructed guard. “I - I know not.”

Akira’s eyes shine, a glow of gentle tenderness that Goro doesn’t remember ever seeing before in his entire life. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Goro turns his back on him before he loses even more of his composure, before he ends up throwing himself at Akira's feet and begging for salvation he does not deserve. 

-

Perhaps it is the maddening novelty of seeing Akira standing like an angel amidst the darkness where Goro has always lived and dwelled; perhaps it is the strange glow of his white robes, the way the candlelight caresses the high arch of his cheekbones, the way his intelligent eyes shine as they drink in the details of everything around him. His gaze lands on each particular piece of Goro's heart scattered in the abyss of his lair, and there's no disgust or terror in his expression; he looks curious, looks fascinated. The shadows make him appear ethereal, outworldly in his unbelievable, near-untouchable beauty - they bring into sharp contrast the curve of his lips, the brush of his eyelashes, the delicate movement of his hand when he tucks a lock behind his ear and leans in closer to analyze one of the many partitures laying on the ground from one of Goro's manic outbursts. The casualty of the action, something so human made so graceful by his existence, unravels something tight inside Goro's mind. That the divine being who has so thoroughly stolen his heart is now walking with careful steps around which has become his home, seemingly entranced.

When Goro steps closer to him, it is wholly instinctive, his senses and mind abandoning defenses that he might, earlier, have held fast to his chest. There's no deliberation in this - if there were, he would never. His rational mind pushes him back from even standing close to Akira, but his heart is weak, and his soul is fragile, and hide as he may behind a mask, it does nothing to disguise his intense, mind-shattering desire. He wants so desperately it aches at something in his core like a bleeding wound; the way the pristine fabric hugs close to the riverbed of Akira's waist, the lustful curve of his exposed thighs, the pleased smile at his lips. He looks like he belongs in here, like the sunlight has always washed out that which must burn brighter in the night. Goro cannot imagine letting him return. He cannot conceive a reality where Akira isn't shining among voluptuous, secretive shadows. 

"The Phantom of the Opera," Akira whispers when Goro is near-flush to his body, chest to his back. Like this, Akira can tilt his head back, can allow his lips to barely skim the angle of Goro's jaw, and his breath is warm and his eyes are sultry, half-closed and simmering, crystal clear even as he leans against Goro. "The Opera Ghost. The Angel of Music." 

Goro is shivering, painfully and silently, unable to compose himself into any manner of propriety. They are doing nothing, Akira is hardly touching him aside from the gentle caress of his breathing against the uncovered skin of Goro's face - but when Goro lifts his trembling fingers to hold him, to wrap an arm around his waist as the other trails up, skims the laces and the open angle of his gown, his entire body feels on fire, Icarus flying into the deadly rays of sunlight. 

"Goro Akechi," Akira says, and Goro's breath leaves him in a gasp.

"Sing," Goro says, pleads, begs, voice as broken as his mind feels. "Sing for me."

Akira sings, and Goro is remade. 

-

It is the freezing bite of the night air on his face that horrifies him into realizing what happened. 

The scream that leaves his mouth is akin to that of a wounded beast attempting to kill those who have wronged it. It tears its way up his throat, and hurts as it comes out. He might be choking on his own blood, for all he knows. The desperate pressure of his gloved palm against his scarred face hurts with phantom pains and memories, but anything is better than letting it be seen, anything at all. 

He stumbles away from the organ, where he was lost in thought just a moment ago, floating in the pleasant ocean where there is only the blissful shadow of art, intangible and inhuman - now he sees the keys, and the yellowed ivory, the glassy black, the papers of his partitures falling on top of each other, and he feels the unstoppable tremors on his hands, the gasping his breathing has been reduced to as if he has received a killing blow. He is painfully aware of his dysfunctional eye, the blind one, the one the fire licked into milky-white, unseeing and useless; and how his sole functioning eye darts from place to place, from dark corner to seedy wall, and he sees the reality of what he's in, the dreadful tomb in which he has made his home and sole hiding place. 

He's fourteen years old again, being kicked and beaten and humiliated; he's thirteen years old again, locked in a cage and whipped; he's ten years old, starving; he's six years old, with flames making his face into something hardly human. He's alone and he's cold and he's so scared - and he captures Akira from the corner of his sight, and he's  _ enraged _ . 

" _ Curse you! _ " he roars, pushing Akira away from him with the hand that isn't maintaining his distorted figure out of sight. For a brief, delirious second, he hopes the boy dies, hopes he perishes, hopes the two of them are mauled by the demons of Goro's past until they're nothing, consumed by vermin, ashes to ashes again. Only this would remove Goro's misery; only this would set him free. He forgets about the mask, his only salvation, his only redemption, the human skin he puts on to pretend he's allowed to desire anything other than death for himself. For a moment, he wants only this: to kill, and to die, and to forget. 

Akira falls to the ground, but gathers his wits enough to run away, to curl up on the other side of the room. He looks like a trapped, injured bird, chest rising and falling rapidly, clinging to - oh, the irony is enough to make Goro bare his teeth - clinging to the cape Goro left behind, as that will give him any respite from the tragedy he created. 

Goro doesn't have such strength as to run after him. His body feels shattered all over, an ugly glass figure someone smashed under their fist. He stays where he is, collapsed at the feet of his organ, sheets pooling around him. The notes seem to mock him, the crescendos and the staccatos questioning why he ever thought he was worthy of creating anything aside from his own destruction, to remove himself from a reality that he never deserved. 

The whiplash difference between two minutes ago and now is nearly enough to unhinge him completely; he was so happy just a moment before, composing songs for the boy he loved, trailing the tips of his fingers over the keys, watching Akira from a distance. That was all he'd wanted: to see, and to love, and to adore. To listen to the one person who could make his song take flight. Tremulous, tender splendour of the night, all the more powerful when shared with another, spirits soaring into unknown, grandiose heights, senses abandoning weak defenses. To make music, damn him, that was all. 

The tears running down his face burn. 

"Damn you," he says, voice shattered like sobs, his lungs filled with decay, clotted blood, "curse you, you little lying Pandora! You  _ viper _ ! Is this what you wanted to see? Is  _ this what you wanted _ ?"

Akira curls on himself further, and he's shaking in what looks undeniably like fear, and Goro has never wanted to die so much in his wretched life. 

He weeps. It's all he can do. 

The agony of knowing Akira is scared,  _ because of him, because of his demonic face and monstrous existence,  _ is somehow as worse as the unbearable panic that courses through Goro as he realizes:  _ he saw.  _ A chasm opening under his feet and dragging him to the deepest pits of Hell wouldn’t hurt him as much as this knowledge. 

He can hear his own sobs distantly - loud and childish, almost, and so  _ lonely _ . He cannot stop crying. He cannot do anything. He hates himself for believing he could have anything aside from what he is. He hates himself for bringing Akira here, hates himself for taking his hand and talking to him about his name and his inexistent birthday and hearing him sing, hates himself for indulging in beauty that will never belong to him. He loathes the very day he first saw Akira. 

He hates himself for trusting.

He listens to the sounds of Akira's skirts moving, the gentle, tentative pacing of his careful steps; when his mask is placed in the space between them, he grabs at it with all the desperation of a dying man searching for his one hope of survival. Putting the mask back on his face is a shower of blissful calm over him; like this he can breathe, like this he can think. The tears are still wet on his face when he finds the courage from somewhere deep in his rotten core to turn and look at Akira.

Akira looks heartbroken. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and his clear eyes fill with tears. "I'm so sorry."

It tears Goro's heart open. He claws uselessly at the floor. 

He hates himself for loving, still. 

"Now you know how misguided your initial praise was," he murmurs, bitterly. "Can you even dare to look or bear to think of me: this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell," he swallows past his tears, and looks up, and Akira - Akira is an angel still, impossible beauty amidst carcasses and corpses and hatred.

Silence falls where there once was music. 

Goro pushes himself up painstakingly slow. He's still shaking badly, and he feels close to fainting. Standing up is near impossible. 

"Come," he beckons, weakly. "We must return. Those fools will be missing you."

He is sending Akira straight back into daylight, into Kitagawa’s arms, but, right now, he just desperately wants to be alone. 

They don't look at each other the entire way back to the surface. 

-

The process of writing his notes for the Opera staff is probably one of the few aspects of his routine that he enjoys. 

Goro isn't in the habit of being listened to. As scholarly and erudite as he is, as he has always been since a very young age, the deformed son of a prostitute merits no attention anywhere aside from that which comes from disgust and humiliation. He could never be accused of feeding his own knowledge and skills for the sake of others' praise - people don't know about his existence, walking corpse that he is, a murderous theater tale that is as terrifying as elusive, and those who do flee in fear before he can so much as strike a conversation (the memory of Akira pierces him like a knife twisting in his stomach, and he shivers with pain for a moment before getting himself together). 

Madame Niijima is perhaps the only exception to this rule that has so governed his life; she visits him and brings him food and relays his messages, and they have dialogues sometimes, about art, about music, about the happenings on the surface. She can never stay for long, however, and he is left almost more unsatisfied than he was before, faced with the possibility of real human interaction and having it taken away from him before the tea grows cold in his teacup. 

He has grown used to being alone. It is nothing more than what he deserves, when he carries the mark of a monster on his face. He reads, sews his clothes, maintains his dark lair of a home. He teaches himself how to draw, how to play the organ, how to compose songs. He writes endless pages of musings, philosophy, wonders about life and death and love. He talks to himself often, if only to fill the silence when his hands hurt too much with the continued strain he puts on them to play music. He learns about medicine, in a stroke of curiosity after Madame Niijima brings him an anatomy textbook, yellowed pages and detailed sketches of the inner workings of the human body. Architecture, also, and sociology and politics. He is humanity's less delighted intellectual. There is no point to all he knows if he cannot see or witness or experience most of it. All of it useless, with no one to talk to. Philosophy and music and literature are his true saviors, because they sustain themselves without need for human input or exchange. Doctors need patients, philosophers need nothing.

When he comes back from leading Akira to the theater once more, he slams enraged, painful notes in his old organ until every single word in his mind is replaced by song. It's soothing like nothing else in the world is right now, and the one thing that stops him from drowning in the small river leading to the underground, and ending his own life without anyone to witness or so much as grieve him. 

When he has a functional hold on his brain once more, he sits down on his desk and writes notes. 

The notes are his one point of true interaction with what goes on above him. Crashing a scenario, breaking props to prove a point, kidnapping their new prima donna through the hidden passage behind his mirror, those are actions with power, ascertaining what he can do, what he  _ will  _ do if he's not obeyed - but without possibility of a genuine answer. With pen, and quill, and paper, they have to read his sentences, have to face his writing, have to bring his statements to eye and commit them to mind. It leaves no doubt as to his existence; and, more so, perhaps the one thing he is truly after, it leaves no doubt as to his humanity. Accidents and tragedies can be blamed in entities, in haunted places, in ghosts and illusions - but only a human being can pick up a pen and write. So long by himself that he often feels as if he is truly the ghost they have named him to be, it's enjoyable, in a childish way, to prove that he is a man. 

He follows Madame Niijma up after he hands over the collection of messages to her capable hands. She doesn't ask questions about it, which is one of the many things he appreciates about her. He sneaks into the hidden passage he has leading to the managers' office, sits on a ledge and waits. 

Like this, he feels powerful again. Unseen and omniscient, aware of all that happens in his theater, capable of all the darkest deeds. 

Firmin and Andre storm into the room, each carrying a small paper. The sight makes him smile. 

"Mystery of the gala night, mystery of soprano's flight," Andre reads, sounding immensely stressed, from the pile of newspapers gathered on top of the wooden desk. "Bad news on soprano scene -"

"Still at least the seats get sold," Firmin soothes. "Gossip's worth its weight in gold." His gaze travels down to the envelope between Andre's fingers, and his voice darkens. "I see you got one too."

" _ Dear Andre, what a charming gala, _ " Andre reads, and Goro has a moment of egocentric pleasure, hearing his words in someone else's voice. " _ Akira was, in a word, sublime. Eliza's aria soared to new heights with his voice. Common sense will surely ascertain that he should take the leading role in the upcoming performances, for the success of my Opera. We were hardly bereft when the other left. On that note, the diva's a disaster, must you cast her when she's seasons past her prime? It looks distasteful for the entire company. _ "

Firmin opens his own envelope and reads, " _ Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid. Send it care of the ghost by return of post. Address it, simply, to P.T.O., and I will consider it done. While I am sure I can blame your forgetfulness on a busy schedule and not on neglect, I have little pleasure in sending out constant reminders of a deal that was established on your first day here. No one likes a debtor, so it's better if my orders are obeyed! _ " he finishes with a pained sigh. 

"Who would have the  _ gall _ to send this?"

A  contemptuouscontemptous scoff. "Someone with a puerile brain!"

"They are both signed O.G., who the hell is he?"

Goro tsks with the demonstrated incompetence before realization comes to the two men. 

"Opera Ghost!" they exclaim at the same time. 

Their debrief is interrupted by the sudden arrival of the Vicomte, looking quite distraught, a similar note crunched in his gloved fist. The sight of his frustration is pleasant to Goro - to see a distinguished man, so handsome and talented, debasing himself to human emotions such as anger. Idly, he imagines a noose around his neck, his body hanging, far away from any salvation, far away from  _ Akira _ . Death comes to all, and Goro delights in picturing it coming to the noble artist by his own machinery. 

"Where  _ is _ he?" Kitagawa demands, cape fluttering behind him, brandishing the paper as one would a criminal prepared for public execution. 

"What do you mean?"

The question appears to irritate Kitagawa even more, as he slams his hand on top of the desk, the loud noise startling all in the office. "I mean monsieur Kurusu, where  _ is _ he? This is outrageous!"

"Well, how should we know?" Firmin protests. 

"I want an answer! I take that you have sent me this note," he says, pointing accusatory at the paper. 

"What's this  _ nonsense _ ? Of course not!"

Kitagawa's beautiful eyes widen in absolute shock. "He's not with you then?"

"Of course not! We're in the dark!"

"Monsieur, don't argue! Isn't this the letter you wrote?"

"And what is it that we're meant to have written?"

Andre takes the offending piece of paper from the Viconte's hands and reads out loud: " _ Do not fear for Monsieur Kurusu. The angel of music has him under his loving wing, where he shall thrive much more gloriously than he ever would in your noble hands. Make no attempt to see him again. _ "

"If you didn't write it, then who did?"

The arrival of Madame Niijima, with Yoshizawa trailing behind her, comes as a controlling force amidst chaos. One slam of her cane against the floor and the three men are resigning themselves to silence - and then she states, clearly, "I have a note," raises yet another piece of paper, and swiftly dodges Kitagawa's attempt to grasp it. 

"What in the world," Firmin laments. "How many more of those are we going to receive?" 

"Let us see it!" Kitagawa pleads. "It might give a hint as to Akira's whereabouts!"

"Akira was returned safe," she says. "He is resting in his chambers. I found it best that he saw no one."

"Senpai needed rest!" Yoshizawa proclaims, to Kitagawa's chagrin. 

"He will see me," Kitagawa says. "He vanished a moment after I'd asked him to allow me to accompany him for the evening - in a matter of minutes, he was gone. I was worried out of my mind the entire night, dreading having let go of him to do something so banal as to fetch my hat. The horrors that went through my brain as I feared what might have happened are unspeakable. At the very least, permit me to see for myself that he is safe and sound. I promise to not disturb him aside from what is strictly necessary for me to maintain my sanity."

Goro's teeth are bared in displeasure before he can realize it. 

"Let us see the note first, monsieur," Andre soothes. "It might give us more light in this strange case."

"Very well," Kitagawa allows, sounding immensely exhausted. "If we must."

Niijima clears her throat, and reads: 

" _ Kurusu Akira has returned to you, and I am anxious his career should progress. For too long he's been pushed to forgetfulness, but not anymore, not while I look over his talent. In the new production of  _ The Magic Flute _ , he shall play the role of the Queen of the Night, for I much desire to see how he'll fare in such a grandiose song. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five - which  _ will _ be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.  _

_ I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, _

_ O.G. _ "

-

Akira sneaks into the Opera Populaire later that same night. 

Goro isn't surprised. Akira has had the habit of entering the theater for nothing in particular since he started working here. Madame Niijima is very dutiful about locking all the doors up and keeping the keys for herself whenever she finishes up for the day, but Akira's keen eyes found a vent somewhere, a place where he can crawl from the back entrance to the backstage rooms, and from there to the stage itself, where he usually sits amongst props and forgotten scenario build-ups. He never turns on any lights aside from the strictly necessary so he won't trip over himself and fall - and he looks beautiful in the shadows, as he always does, cheekbones and dark eyes brought sharply to life, darkness pooling on the delicate curve of his wrists and the riverbed of his waist. 

He's lonelier than usual. Akira never brings anyone with him on his nightly trips to nowhere, Goro knows - but there's something about his gaze, something about his perfect dancer's posture that makes him appear older, more distant, untouchable. His mouth is soft and serious, the pattern of his breathing calm and almost soothing. Usually, by this point, he would be twirling around the mostly-empty stage, singing to himself idly,  making a presentation of his existence to no one the knowing other than Goro , ever present and ever watching in his raptured passion; but tonight Akira is doing nothing. Simply sitting by the edge of the stage, legs kicking the air, staring at nothing in particular. It's eerily calm, and strange, and Goro's heart strains as he wants to - do something, anything, sing and have Akira sing back, turn on a light and turn it off simply to see any sort of reaction from his uncannily motionless figure. 

When Akira starts humming a song, it punches Goro's breath out of his lungs as if a knife were driven straight into his guts. 

The familiarity strucks him dead before anything else does; the painful realization of familiarity that comes when faced with something that has been in his life for as long as he can remember. For a breathless moment of pure shock, he can hardly put rational words to what it is he's hearing being sung in such soft tone - and then, his mind flashes white, and he remembers an old music box, sitting atop his desk where he can wind up it and listen to it play, the beaten-up ballerina spinning around slowly, the single, only toy he ever got his entire life, the only thing he'd ever treasured to keep with himself for as long as he's been alive. 

Akira continues humming the song. It hurts so deeply at Goro's heart, to hear the one remnant of his childhood being brought tenderly to life by the lips of the one person he's ever loved in the world, that he wonders if Akira is doing this on purpose, solely to punish him, to make him pay. It would be well-deserved and earned; but the sick justice of such hypothetical judgment does nothing to quell the sharp ache running through all his limbs. His face hurts with phantom burning pain. 

The knock on the far-off door leading to the backstage brings relief from the painful daze, but it is also unexpected. Goro jumps, and nearly hits his head on a metal bar, and looks immediately at Akira - but Akira is calm still, as he was when he arrived, and he makes no movement to investigate or even so much as wonder as to who could've possibly announced their entering. 

Kitagawa pushes the door open, and Goro is gasping before he can bring himself to composure. 

"Did you have to invite me to break into the Opera Populaire so late into the night, Akira?" Kitagawa asks, sounding slightly winded from the effort apparent for him to reach this particular goal. Akira's mouth curves into an amused smile. 

"I did not invite you. You proclaimed you wanted to see me - I said where I would be, if you'd like to meet. You did not have to knock; the door was unlocked, as you could see for yourself."

"You were singing; I didn't mean to interrupt so rudely. What was that song?" Kitagawa sits next to Akira, swinging his long legs over the edge of the stage. The idea of the Viconte, of all people, inquiring as to the origin of Goro's song tears at something deep inside him. "I don't think I've ever heard it before."

Akira's mysterious smile clings to his lips. "Just a lullaby, monsieur."

Goro wants to cry, but there would be no one to soothe his tears, and he's so exhausted from weeping by himself. 

Kitagawa frowns. "You sound oddly distant. Did something happen, in the night you were away?"

Akira shakes his head. "I wish I could be more - crude about this, but my heart was shaken. I do not think I shall ever forget what I saw."

  
"What did you see, my dove?" Kitagawa says, leaning in, a gloved hand on Akira's shoulder, and Goro has never wanted to kill someone as intensely as he wants to kill him right now. 

"It's beyond description, beyond music."

Akira says nothing else, and Kitagawa doesn't press him any longer. 

"He sent notes," the Vicomte starts, hesitantly. "A number of them."

Akira hums. 

"About box 5, his salary, casting - about you."

"Oh, so he wrote about me, did he," Akira smiles. 

"He desires for you to be the Queen of the Night in the newest production of Mozart's Magic Flute. I do not deny I would be much pleased to see you singing in such a tremendous role, for which I am sure you are more than qualified, but I also fear for your safety."

"You worry, monsieur."

"I worry because I care, Akira. Immensely."

Akira takes his face in his hands. "Oh, Yusuke," he says gently, and the way the swift, smooth syllables of the other's first name flow out of his lips feels  _ tender _ , a caress over him. "I know you do, and the same is true for me. But he would never hurt me. If anything," and here Akira steals a glance up, as if idly seeking Goro amidst the shadows, "I'm the one who continues to hurt him."

"He is a bad man." Yusuke affirms, with the certainty of someone who has only shallow facts and no deeper knowledge. 

"He is lonely. You have no idea how lonely he is. I don't think any of us, who live amongst others, who thrive in humanity in such an ungrateful manner, taking all the precious interactions we're blessed with every day for granted since we were born, can understand what goes through his heart, if he has one still after everything."

"What do you mean?"

"I do not know what happened to him. I cannot pretend I have anything outside of pure speculation and, frankly, terror."

"And, still, you suffer for him. I can see it in your eyes, my dear. You suffer for this wretched man, this tyrant who desires to rule over our lives."

Akira twists his hands together on top of his lap. He looks different when not graced by his customary gown, his costumes and skirts and jewels for the stage - wearing simple trousers and a simpler shirt and jacket, he looks younger, poorer, looks - more human. Touchable. Vulnerable, even, in the dim light of the empty theater. 

"Perhaps you are right, Yusuke." Akira says, and Goro feels dizzy with the statement, carried clearly to him up in the corners of the roof. He wonders what he'll do with himself if Akira decides to resent him, hate him, fear him. There is no reason why he  _ shouldn't _ \- all Goro can do is hope, and hoping never acquired him anything once in his life. "I owe him more than I can possibly express in words. I would have been trapped forever as a ballet dancer were it not for him and his patience in teaching me, for no reason other than appreciation, maybe, affection. There aren't many people in this world who do anything for affection."

Yusuke grimaces before speaking, as if the admittance physically hurts him in the making. "I despise saying things like this to someone like you, but - Akira, does your mirror show you nothing when you glance upon it every day? You are beautiful, beyond comparison. Any man or woman with a pair of working eyes would fall at your feet for a shred of your attention." Goro presses the tips of his fingers to the closed eyelids of his dysfunctional eye before he can help himself. "What you call affection, allow me to call infatuation, desire, if I may; unsurprising, crass, but not less true. Of that I am also guilty, and, perhaps for that reason, I can recognize it upon someone else's actions."

Akira laughs brightly, and it sounds like silver windchimes fluttering by the ocean breeze. "Do you presume me to be a child, monsieur? I know lust drives people's actions, as does hunger, cold, thirst. For long I didn't know what to expect from my unseen angel of music. All I knew was his beautiful voice, his punctuality, his clear tenderness towards me."

"His dangerous stunts against others," Yusuke interrupts darkly. 

"No one has been injured thus far."

"Thus far."

"Can you believe I never fantasized about his face? It hardly crossed my mind that he should have a physical form at all. Months of nothing but his voice, his presence. Being faced with him - he's so young, did you know? Handsome. Talented. A masterpiece of a man, if I've ever seen one. So  _ formal _ and uptight - he almost reminds me of you." Both Yusuke and Goro bristle, one witnessed and the other in the blissful hideout of the darkness, but not less affected. Akira smiles as if he knows. "If I met him in a gala, or a ball, I would fully expect to be propositioned, to be indecently seeked after. A man like that could take the world in stride. 

"And yet…" A delicate frown. "Well. The most intimate touch we exchanged was holding hands as he guided me. He hardly laid a finger on me besides. One would think him to dislike me, with the distance he kept. I know now it was respect, perhaps, of a strange nature. Perhaps something more."

"Where did he guide you to, exactly?"

Akira's eyes glint. "Even if I intended to say, I couldn't. My memory is vague at best, unreliable at worst. We would all get lost trying to reach him. He lives in his own universe."

"Why did he take you there?"

"Who knows? He asked me to sing, nothing else. He allowed me to sleep and covered me. And then I hurt him, badly. Out of curiosity, I assure you, I had no malicious intent, but - curiosity can be one of the eviler qualities of man. He is, has been, profoundly wounded, in more ways than one. I cannot imagine what goes through his mind."

"A scorpion doesn't sting when fighting back. They strike to kill. I know not what transpired in the Phantom's life, and you refuse to tell me what occurred in your meeting, but I continue to fear for you." Yusuke's pretty blue eyes fog up, not unlike a deserted street amidst heavy winter. "I know better than most what a life of suffering can do to a person." 

Akira threads his fingers gently through Yusuke's hair, and says nothing. 

"We should both head home for the night," Yusuke says. "It is late for you, and for me. Allow me to walk you."

Akira wraps his arms around Yusuke, in a strange display of fragility. "Is that really what you desire to do, monsieur?"

Yusuke's eyes widen in almost fear. "I do not -"

Akira shakes his head. "That is not what I meant. But you look sad, and I feel lonely, and neither of us has anyone waiting for us. Perhaps treat me to supper, and more conversation, and we can both head to sleep with lighter minds."

The smile that graces Yusuke's face is pure innocent delight - regardless of Akira's intentions with the invitation, he looks entirely like a man looking forward to a pleasant meal and interesting conversation, and nothing else. "I suppose I cannot say no to such a request. I do owe you dinner."

There's nothing else for Goro to see; nothing else, he realizes, he can bear seeing. He heads to his own quarters by himself, and cries until he falls asleep out of sheer exhaustion. 

-

Goro doesn't come back to the surface for about two weeks.

The amount of sheer resentment that brought this choice is one of the most human emotions he has ever felt in his life. Something ugly, dark and awful inside his chest, speaking horrible things about the person he loves most, about himself, about everything around him - it takes a couple of days until he traces it as the jealousy it so evidently is, the jealousy and the hurt and the pain, and by then both his body and his mind are too weak for him to drag himself to the hideaway behind Akira's mirror and teach him. 

He doesn't eat; he barely, if ever, sleeps. His days are spent in a strange haze where he is unable to call back to memory what most of his hours were consumed by. He reads, and plays, and writes incoherent poems that will never see anything but shadows and darkness, and that he tears into pieces as soon as he finishes them. It is the maniac workings of a brain that has only functioned with a single goal for years; self-destructive and self-hating, now that he has little to look forward to. 

He knows it's his own fault. For being like this, for looking like this. When he has enough presence of mind, he takes the portrait of his mother, the sole register he has of her, the one thing, aside from Goro's own reflection in the mirror, that was left behind to tell about her beauty and her empty eyes, and he curses her, and he hates her. There was never anyone to teach him about forgiveness - his mother never forgave his father, killed herself while wishing she could kill him instead, and Goro will never forgive either of them. A family of hatred and resentment and murder, carrying each other's dreadful prayers of tragedy and revenge for decades, the only son and the heir of all the blood and death and suffering. 

Goro shouldn't have expected anything from Akira. What hurts the most is that he did, is that he does, still, in feverish dreams where he loves and is loved back, in nightmares where he has everything he ever wanted, only to wake up with gritted teeth and tears in his eyes. The betrayal hurt, immensely - but more than that, it ached at him to see Akira scared, in fear because of him, to hear him regret what he'd done, only for Goro to realize how distant they are, how far apart they've always been. How Akira's voice smoothed so easily over the words to describe him; how all of them were sweet, and loving, and almost yearning.  _ Handsome, talented, a masterpiece of a man _ . Goro feels as if he has taken a naked blade in hands and is driving it through his stomach whenever he forces himself to remember the tone with which he'd said it, soft and almost tender. What good was such appreciation if Yusuke had been the one to walk him home, to take him to dinner, to live the beginnings of a real life with him, something Goro would never be able to give? Yes, he was jealous, painfully, humanly so, and it dragged at the deep wounds of his childhood, of wanting to be normal and realizing he would never be, not while he was alive. 

Madame Niijima comes often, and stops by with food that Goro barely touches, and with news he hardly pays mind to. She comments on how thin he's gotten, how she worries, and he wishes he could believe her, but he doesn't. He receives her with a hazy voice and distant, cutting remarks to drive her away. 

It is one day before the opening of The Magic Flute that she sighs and says, "He says he misses you," and that takes his attention, when nothing else did. 

"He cannot possibly," is Goro's weak answer, refuting the reality of such a statement before anything else. 

"I don't know what happened here, and I'm not asking for clarification. I don't perform judgment of value. All I'm doing is forwarding something I heard, and which I thought would be of interest to you."

Goro nods slowly, still completely unbelieving, eyes focused on the ground underneath his feet. He touches the smooth edges of his mask with the tips of his fingers.

Niijima sighs once more, leaning heavily on her cane. "Are you coming to the performance? The managers acquired some sense for once in their lives, and Akira is singing the aria you wanted. If nothing else, come at least for a night of good music and to see some human faces. God knows you need it."

She leaves, and Goro genuinely convinces himself he's not going up until a couple of hours before the performance will take place. He can hear most of what goes on above him - the bumbling voices, the calls for the actors, the music tentatively rehearsed by the orchestra. He doesn't know what is that drives him to comb his hair with the small wooden comb he inherited from one of the other women that worked with his mother at the brothel, and take his coat from the hanger, and fix his cravat in place; it feels mechanical, like someone has set him to move at the sound of some unheard music box. He has gone to all the premiere nights until now, is what he thinks as he goes up the unsteady stairs, he misses listening to songs played by someone other than himself, and, even though it hurts to admit, he misses Akira like a torn limb. To see his face, to hear him sing from the safety of the shadows of box 5, that is all he wants. 

When he touches the door leading up to box 5 and finds resistance in the forward movement, unable to push it open, he realizes it's closed. Worse, it's locked, and there are voices coming from inside. 

Somehow, that feels like the most insulting thing that has ever happened to him. 

This specific box has been reserved for his use for so long that no one should remember a time when it wasn't set apart for him and him alone; it's been years, so much so that he's gotten as used to the gentle shadows and the cushioned seats inside it as to the dark lair where he lives. Here, he saw Akira sing for the first time, here he looked over his ballet presentations and delighted in the sheer fact of his presence, here he indulged in rare evenings of simply listening to opera, watching the audience live their ordinary lives. In box 5, he could pretend he was nothing more than a spectator, unseen and unnoticed, a face in the crowd like all the others. It was one of his rare moments of respite, of pretending, of breathing in fresh air without having his throat closed by the reality of who he is. 

He stands there for a moment, hand wrapped tight around the golden handle, fingers trembling with force and rage. He can hear the opera, muffled and would-be indistinguishable for anyone without his level of musical knowledge - and he's never felt so much like an outsider before, like the undesired child he is, has always been since his birth. He is reminded painfully of his scars, his deformity, the monstrosity he carries, and it  _ hurts _ . 

He would go back to his home, would take off his coat and cravat and attempt to sleep the nightmares away - but his heart is turned to icy stone. He lets the handle go, watches his fingers slowly release their grip as if watching a mechanism come stuttering to life, distant and idle. Walks away, crawls into the hidings and secret passages he knows as well as he knows himself, and climbs over the metal rails leading up to the flies. 

Akira is singing, the aria Goro so wanted to hear, but the sound comes near inaudible to his ears, and part of him mourns it, almost. 

The man commanding the scenarios and weights and pulls doesn't notice him. The matter of killing him is a simple one. Goro doesn't want to risk throwing him down with a noose around his throat and someone saving him; he strangles him first, with a strange firmness on his hands that he didn't know he possessed, and sits down on the ledge, legs crossed as he delicately wraps the rude rope around in a hanging noose. He feels like a child, playing with his toys. Akira continues to sing. He sounds beautiful, Goro notices. As beautiful as always. He doesn't have the guts to look at him, but he listens. 

It is only after Akira's done with his aria and stepping away from the stage that Goro releases the corpse from above. The throat snaps in half with a sickening sound. The screams of the audience feel like an orchestra, Goro the unseen maestro. 

-

"Why have you brought me here?" Akira pleads with Yusuke, who is taking him away with an arm around his waist, steps hurried in what would look like determination if Goro didn't know them for the terror they are. 

"I told you I feared for your safety!" Yusuke explains, taking Akira in his arms as if he needs to ascertain he's alive, his heart beating and his lungs drawing in breath, with evidence pressed against his own body. "My God, who is this man?!"

Akira presses a hand to his forehead, pale and upset - Yusuke draws him closer, and Goro snarls silently, thinking,  _ I killed one man today, I may very well kill another _ . "He'll kill you," Akira whispers. "His eyes will find you. Yusuke, there is nothing he doesn't see. Oh, God, he'll kill you as he killed Iwai and it'll be my fault -"

Yusuke takes his face in his hands and presses their foreheads together, breaths mingling. "Akira, don't say that."

Akira's smile is contrite, almost, as if he knows no one will ever comprehend what he is attempting to express, as if he nearly feels sorry, for them and for himself. "Yusuke, I've been there. I've seen him. That night, there was music in my mind, and through music..." His voice lowers to a near whisper, and Goro doesn't know if the glow he sees in his dark eyes are tears or enchantment. "And I heard as I'd never heard before..."

Yusuke presses a kiss to Akira's shaking hand. "What you heard was a dream and nothing more."

Akira presses on, seemingly unhearing of his words. "Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world - those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore..."

"Oh, Akira, Akira," Yusuke says, and Goro sings, unraveling, "Akira...," and the sound of his name resonates across the shadows like a spell. 

"I cannot allow this to continue happening," the Vicomte declares, a shiver coursing through his entire form. "Not to you. You mention humanity in this ghost, in this haunting abomination, but all we can see is his trail of blood. Whatever affection you saw on him cannot possibly be true. No loving man kills for the sake of his beloved. Let go of this fantasy, I beg of you. He might murder you as easily as he murdered tonight, and what then?"

"What do you want me to do?"

“Marry me,” comes the proposal, feverish. “I will protect you. You will come to live with me and I will keep you safe to the best of my abilities.”

Akira’s eyes go wide with shock. “Yusuke -”

“Forgive me for being so preposterous,” Yusuke says as he falls to his knees. “I have no ring and no reason why you should accept other than my devotion and love, which have been unending since I first laid my eyes on you.” He leans forward, as if he cannot bear the weight of his own body by himself, and presses his forehead to Akira’s thigh. “I’m terrified, Akira. I cannot bear the idea of something happening to you when I adore you so immensely. If I marry you, I can bring you to my mansion without threatening your reputation, I can keep you safe in some way, I can -"

Akira cups his cheek gently, lovingly, tilts his head up until they are gazing at each other. Yusuke wraps his long fingers around Akira's wrist, and his lips are parted in pure emotion as he states, "I'm scared", tone small like a lost child's. "Whatever fear you do not hold for yourself, I do."

"Is that the only reason why you want to marry me?" Akira asks, and he sounds insecure, strangely. 

Yusuke tears his gaze away, grimaces. "I wish I were that selfless. I am but a man, a simple one, caught in the throes of my heart. I love you. I do not know what to do with my existence without you. Tell me to leave and I will never stand in front of you again - but if I have a chance - I'll give you anything you may ask, anything that is in my power to give -"

"Yusuke," Akira says, a small smile upon his lips, "look at me."

Yusuke does. Akira presses the tips of his fingers to his hair, caresses it back from his face. "Love me - that's all I ask of you."

When they kiss, Goro feels as if he is the corpse still hanging from the noose. 

-

The chandelier crashes in a spectacle of light and fear, diamonds and crystals raining down like an apocalyptic storm. It is Goro's final act. Amidst the screams, he takes the steps down to his underground lair, without glancing back, the tears on his face dragging at his scars like liquid fire.


	2. second act

Goro doesn't return to the surface for half a year. 

Now, more than ever, there is nothing for him there. The chandelier crashed like his heart, a thousand glimmering pieces, and the Opera Populaire's peace of mind blooms, unknowing, on top of his own agony. As self-hating as he is, however, he is also human, and he doesn't indulge in more pain than he already has to handle by picking up what's left of his sanity. He doesn't send any more notes, and he doesn't pull off any more stunts, and he doesn't kill anyone else. The warnings he had to give were put on display just enough - no one can doubt his existence anymore, and it is then that he decides to vanish. There is pettiness there, a sort of resentment, that he was driven to such lengths in order to prove himself as someone important, as something who lives and breathes and feels; but there is also a level of caring for his own emotions that he hasn't had the likes of in years. Akira is engaged to be married, for all he knows, for all he  _ cares _ to know, and he cannot bring himself to go up the steps only to see the way his wedding ring shines capturing the stage lights. 

He stays in his underground lair, and he thinks. 

He reads books he hasn't read in years. He tracks down the journals he has been faithfully keeping, and witnesses, with a strange, masochistic glee, his own journey in falling in love with Akira, from the first time he saw him, to the first time he taught him how to sing, to every thing that happened afterwards. He ascertains for himself how hopeless he is, how lost and devoted and insane, and he closes the journals and sets them aside again and lets the realization of that settle inside his mind. He has to learn how to live with it. He has to decide what to do. 

The beginning of his work in  _ Don Juan Triumphant  _ comes as naturally as breathing. 

It is nothing more than a whim, at first. Some chords, a vague semblance of plot structure. Suddenly, hours have passed and his ideas are overcoming him. It is easy to fall back into the easy viciousness and addiction of creativity - easier still when he can indulge himself in putting familiar voices and faces to characters. In his mind, Akira can sing the words he writes, the melodies he brings to existence. In his mind, he plays with color and fabric and lighting and staging, and in his mind he controls the stage. It's a balm of pure relief, and it takes over his waking moments. 

There is no structure to his days. He doesn't see sunlight or the fall from brightness to sunset, and every hour appears to be the same. Without the need to track Akira's schedule, he loses track of something as basic as weekdays sometimes. He knows the shift in seasons from the mere feel of the weather around him - and he knows Christmas because Madame Niijima brings him a small gift, the same she does every year ever since they met: a mask shaped to half a human face, white and light and smooth. 

"I'm grateful," Goro says, because he is. Human kindness is not something he is used to, not something he knows, and he learned to appreciate it in the unlikely scenarios in which it comes. 

The only other indicator of the celebratory occurrence is the tiny red ribbon she has tying her hair back, and the slightly more expensive food she brought for them to share. Goro has never been able to understand why she takes time from the certainly more exciting parties happening upstairs, and she never gives him an explanation. It doesn't help Goro's pride, as it makes him feel even more like her personal charity case, but he enjoys the company more than he can express when he hasn't had a real interaction in so long. 

"It's been peaceful," Niijima states, blowing gently on the teacup Goro made for her. "The Opera is doing well."

Goro nods, tracing the lip of his own otherwise untouched cup, which he keeps in front of himself solely to be polite. 

"You don't have to be polite and say you're pleased to hear it," she continues, and her smile is wry. "I know you're not."

He gives a defeated chuckle. "I wasn't intending on being polite, but neither was I intending to directly manifest my distaste. Perhaps you know me too well, madam."

"Perhaps," she agrees. 

"How is the ballet?" he asks, if only to make conversation. Never let it be said he's not polite. 

"You haven't come to watch rehearsal," she says, and it's not a question as much as it's a statement. "It's going," she settles for saying when he does not grant her an answer, "better than before. Ballet is an art that requires years of discipline and routine, perhaps more so than others, but improvement, when it does come, does so steadily. The addition of a new patron who has her eyes in dance has been helpful as well."

Goro raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"The announcement was made a couple of months ago, it was a surprise to us all. Apparently, she inherited a large amount from her deceased father - but she is a former dancer herself. After Count Okumura's passing, she gave up her spotlight to support the arts financially."

"I take it she's acquaintances with monsieur Kitagawa, then?" he says with a sneer. 

"How do you know?"

"Rich people all know each other. I hope it brings forth a brilliant age for this institution of fine arts."

Niijima sighs, takes a sip of her tea. "What was it that you told me one day? Bitterness is unkind to the skin."

"I'm not bitter in the slightest, I'm merely making my comments on the situation. Have they caught Monsieur Iwai's murderer yet, or are the police indulging in a holiday rest? I heard it caused quite a stir in the first performance of The Magic Flute."

"You're pushing your luck," she affirms, and she would look disappointed to his eyes were he not so aware of her feelings towards him. For reasons unknown, Niijima has always had a strange sense of protection when it comes to the antisocial Opera Ghost, and no amount of breaking every single ethical and moral boundary was enough to push her away. One day, he simply stopped trying. She was stubborn and insistent in an elegant way that worked through his routine and his daily life subtly. She continued to bring him meals and living necessities even in the times where he wanted to be left alone to die the most. There was no point in fighting an unstoppable force. A murder would not be the catalyst to her finally leaving him to his deserved fate. Whatever judgment there was in her eyes - and he knew it to be there - it was familiar and soft and nearly tender. She held no expectations for him aside from her continued desire for him to stay alive. "I'll have you know Makoto is leading the investigation."

His laughter is more scornful than he initially intends it to be. "Your little sister? What a spectacle, that her own family is sheltering the culprit she is searching the entire city for. Do you intend on selling me in, madam?"

"Not at all. Makoto is a competent police commissioner - if she gets to you, it'll be through her own merit and intelligence, and not by me tipping her off just because I happen to have a lead."

Goro laughs again. He cannot help himself. It sounds hollow and broken. "It's not a  _ lead _ , madam, you had merely to point her in my general direction and she would have me handcuffed to be hanged for manslaughter and who knows what else."

He doesn't know what he was expecting with his quip - some sort of reaction, perhaps a reprimand or a chuckle to play along with his disregard for his own future - but Niijima props her chin up on her entwined fingers and gazes at something distant in the darkness. "The people's memory is faint and weak. The managers had a new chandelier made, and Mademoiselle Ann has taken back her spot as the primadonna. No one mourns our loss anymore aside from those who have worked in the Opera for a couple of decades or more. Those up above have already forgotten about the Phantom of the Opera's existence. I don't suppose I would be heard even if I desired to speak - which I do not."

"I see. So the masquerade ball you mentioned..."

"Preparations are in full swing. It promises to be a fantastic event."

He pulls at a loose thread from a stitch in his white glove. "And what about Akira?" he inquires quietly. 

She turns to look at him. He refuses to meet her eyes. "Engaged to be married," she says. "Monsieur le Vicomte has never paid mind to the scandalous rumors he might strike up by taking a male lover publicly - made worse by monsieur Kurusu's particular background and occupation. You must know those from his sphere of society look down on artists. The talks have not been kind. Regardless, for all purposes and intents, they are together."

Goro swallows dry, licks his lips. He knew that, he had to know, he could not forget Yusuke at Akira's feet in his most dissociated dreams - but the confirmation hurts at something frail and soft in the core of his soul. "...I see."

"He continues to ask about you, however. It seems there are only three people who have not forgotten about you: he, the Vicomte, and myself. Each of us with our own reasons, I suppose."

"What do you say to him when he asks?"

"That you are alive," she answers. "That you are still here. I do not have anything else to say aside from that; at the very least, nothing that is my business. He seems pleased to know you haven't perished to your own careless self-destruction."

He wraps his fingers around his empty teacup and braces himself for the question that will hurt him the most to ask. "Has he been singing?"

She shakes his head, and he cannot distinguish if he is pleased or grievous. "Minor roles, when necessary. As far as I can tell, it is not for lack of trying from the managers. He has been asked to solo before - he merely refuses. It's a hard blow for the Opera, even if mademoiselle Ann is back to her usual spotlight." This time, when she catches his gaze, he does not manage to flee from it. "It seems he does not desire to sing without you."

"How cruel," he says, and does not elaborate what he means: if he's referring to her observation, to his own actions, to Akira. Perhaps all of those. Perhaps everything. 

-

He dreams about his mother. 

He does not know this, but he dreams about his mother when his birthday is approaching. He does not know this because his mind forgot, forced itself to forget, but the body remembers trauma, and it remembers wounds that never heal. The body has memory that the brain cannot hope to match. Goro does not know his birthday, but he has nightmares about his mother. 

In his nightmare, he is six years old and small and scared. He was always scared then. He would continue to be scared for his entire life - the terror that defines an existence that has only ever known hurt. Then, he was learning how to train his steps to fall like feathers against the carpet, soundless. He was learning how to breathe silently, and speak only when it was required of him, and hide in corners with his books. 

The only thing he did unapologetically was sing. Everything else about his existence was a constant apology for continuing to live another day, another hour, another minute - but not music. Never music. He lived as a songbird in a cage, that only ever shines when left alone, because being alone means being safe, and people mean harm, pain, suffering. 

Nothing could quell his singing. Not hunger, not cold, not the dripping blood from a broken nose or a deep wound. 

Still, when he approaches his mother, he doesn't lift his eyes from the carpet, and he keeps quiet. 

The mistake he makes that day is wanting. 

He doesn't want a gift, because they don't have money for food, let alone for toys. He doesn't want to be spoiled, or coddled, or showered in pretty things. Ever since he was born, he learned that the only two beautiful things in their house were himself and his mother; and the beauty she carried, which she then passed on to him, had only ever meant suffering. Children learn fast, and he learned to not expect anything. 

But it's his birthday. And the only thing he wants is for his mother to look at him. 

His mother seems to despise his birthday with a hatred only seconded by how much she hates her own birthday. They are both painful reminders of existence, of the solid passing of time. She bears both dates as she bears everything else in their life - with a grimace and a drink between her lips, and eyes distant. She doesn't talk to him, and deftly avoids him with all the ability she can muster when she's stumbling on her own feet due to the weight of cheap alcohol on her mind. Children learn fast, but children are also stubborn, and every year Goro thinks it will be different. He wants a hug, he wants a kiss, he wants - something. All the other children in their street, poor as they are, sometimes poorer, get at least a sweet, or a pat on the head. A gentle glow in their parents' eyes as they look at them. It's not much to ask for. It's not like when he asked his mother for a toy and she beat him because it was disrespectful to even think about something like that. Surely, some kindness she can muster. 

That is the mistake he makes that day. 

It's cold. A cold morning. That is something his body remembers. He's wrapped on a flimsy blanket, and he was singing a lullaby to himself, a comfort of sorts, the same song that plays on the music box his mother owns. It's a beautiful song, if sad. Goro has spent many hours staring at the small toy ballerina spinning on her apex. He would be in the room they share, looking at that ballerina, but it's warmer in the small living room, because the fireplace is lit. His mother is tending to the fireplace. 

His mother is tending to the fireplace. 

It's a cold morning. Goro is singing the song from the music box. His mother is tending to the fireplace. 

Those are three things he will remember for the rest of his life. 

"Stop," his mom grits out between her teeth, and he stops. He curls up further on his blanket. He watches the fire.

A few moments pass. The crackling sounds of fire licking wood fill the winter air. 

"Mom," he says in a small voice. She doesn't answer or react. It's painful that she doesn't. 

He walks closer to her with tiny steps. He doesn't know what exactly he wants from her. The flames make strange shadows on her face. 

"Mom," he says again. His mother's eye twitches. Her fingers grip the fire iron tighter. He should've known. In the dream, the image is framed in black smoke. "Mom."

She doesn't answer him. Her shoulders grow tense. He wants to cry, suddenly. It's his birthday, and his mother won't look at him, and he's cold and he's hungry, and there are tears in his eyes. " _ Mom _ ," he sobs, and his voice breaks, and his mother turns to glare at him and she looks - 

She looks enraged. The fire burns in her red, furious gaze. Her face is distorted and scary and she reminds Goro of a monster, of a demon, and he starts apologizing, over and over again,  _ sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry _ , but she has him by the collar of his old shirt and she's bodily lifting him off the floor and he cannot  _ breathe _ and she's screaming,  _ stop calling me that, you demon, you bastard, worthless brat _ , and -

It's an absolutely deliberate thing, and that's one of the many memories that are burned in Goro's mind. 

She looks away from him, and looks at the fireplace, burning like the depths of hell, and looks back at him. In that moment, Goro knows. He knows. 

The pain is more agonizing than he can put into words, or even into coherent thoughts. What he knows is: his mother throws him into the flames, and he burns. It licks at the side of his beautiful face, and destroys his eye, and his arm and hand and waist. He continues to burn. 

-

Seeing Akira for the first time in six months is akin to being drowned. 

There is a spectacle of colors and shining lights all around him, and the heat of human warmth is stifling and insanity-inducing, and some vague part of his mind registers the surrounding scenario, the protective weight of Yusuke's hand on Akira's arm, the distant screams when people realize what he is, who he is - but his entire perception is set in the curves of a white dress, going down to Akira's ankles, the silver outline and stitches catching on the reflection and shining. It hugs to his waist like a lover, and gives his entire figure the delicacy of a porcelain doll. His hair is grown, Goro realizes idly, curling prettily on his nape, locks twirling around the shape of his ears. A tiara sits atop the crown of his curls, glinting with subtle crystals and precious stones. The mask covering the upper half of his face is as pure white as his dress, framing the cutting intelligence of his eyes and bringing them sharply into clarity, and drawing attention to the shape of his lips and his cupid's bow. The faux wings resting on his back and shoulders are soft, and just the right size, and the notion of what he is dressed at, what he picked his costume to be, forces Goro to grip the golden handrail by his side so that he will not falter on what he came here to do. 

The screams have faded into silence, deadly like a graveyard. Hidden behind his own red mask, Goro feels safe, almost, were it not for how intensely Akira's gaze pierces through him, how intent Yusuke's eyes are on him. For a moment, it feels like he's alone in the grand room with just the two of them, and their shared truths, and the music thrumming between them. Then, the rest of the world shifts into focus, and he narrows his eyes.    
  


"Why so silent, good messieurs?" he drawls out, nearly like a song. "Did you think that I had left you for good?"

He lets the question linger, unanswered because of how surgical it is. They  _ did _ think him gone for good, they did enjoy the past six months in blissful, deliberate ignorance, pretending that everything they'd seen, everything they'd witnessed and everything he'd done had been merely tricks of their minds, mere illusions created by the excessive retelling of a theater fairy tale. He lets it simmer, waits for it to weigh heavily on every single one of them, for faltering like this, for thinking themselves safe. The horror settles in their faces - he watches the primadonna go pale underneath her crimson feline mask, and Yoshizawa cover her mouth with her hands in abject fear, and Yusuke's lips purse together. It's a storytelling of how he's affected their lives, how strong of an impression he's left on all of them. 

"Did you miss me?" he purrs, feeling almost satisfied. High on the stairs, he looks down on them, so much like how he used to watch performances; but now, everyone is watching him. Akira's face is unreadable - his mouth is parted, and he looks surprised, if nothing else, but his expression lacks the anger, resentment or judgment Goro was bracing himself for. The emotion drawn on his beautiful features is something unlike anything Goro has ever expected to see on him. 

"What do you want now, you murderous fiend?" Yusuke demands, voice rich and loud over the thick tension in the air. "Didn't you take enough from us?"

"I have written you an opera," Goro declares, presenting the score, which he wrote himself, with his own pen and quill. The ink stains still mark the inner curve of his wrists, and the outer stitches of his favorite gloves. He is proud of his work in a way he hasn't been proud of anything in years. "Here I bring the finished score:  _ Don Juan Triumphant _ !"

"You preposterous demon," Yusuke protests, and Akira, by his side, opens his mouth to say something, but catches himself before he does. 

“Everything I desired to say,” Goro continues, laying the thick volume of paper on the floor before rising again, “is here in my masterpiece. I advise you to comply. My instructions should be sufficiently detailed. Remember, there are worse things than a shattered chandelier." 

Gasps rise in the terrified audience; he stares straight at Akira, and somehow manages to speak beyond the terrible knot in his throat. "You will sing for me."

He turns around, and is moving to leave back to where he came from, when, on the corner of his functional eye, he sees Akira reaching for him uselessly, seemingly in an almost instinctive trance - but the lighting catches a glint on his engagement ring, and that is enough. 

Goro grits his teeth and leaves. 

-

He returns to the surface on the following day with his steps lighter and his composure better, the certainty of a job going as it's meant to. The instructions were delivered, and all he must do is wait for the first rehearsal day, on which he shall give his opinion once more. His reputation in the Opera and his past actions bring with them the pressure of obedience even when it goes unstated in so many words. 

Yusuke and the new patron, Okumura Haru, have taken the spots behind the wooden desk in the managers' office, looking expensive enough that the command of the room would be more easily given to them than to the frayed nerves of the two managers. The first primadonna is here, appearing amused by the whole situation, exchanging whispers and giggles with Akira and hiding the two of them behind a beautiful fan. Goro never quite managed to break her spirit, even with the multiple accidents and, notably, the near-death experience in the previous year he pulled to give Akira the lead in  _ Hannibal _ ; perhaps she is airy, or, which is far more likely, perhaps she is merely stronger than she appears underneath her skirts and the complicated braids on her long blonde hair. Someone brought in Shirogane Naoto, the pianist for the orchestra, a delicate doll of a man with a skill that makes him one of the very few people Goro genuinely respects in the Opera - but said man is busy flipping through the score that was handed to him, seemingly unaware of the chaos happening around him. Madam Niijima keeps to a corner, leaning heavily on her cane and nursing a headache, if the tell-tale pressure of her fingertips to her temples says anything. Goro reminds himself to apologize to her for whatever stress he might have induced on her. 

"This is ludicrous!" Yusuke says, scowling openly at his copy of the score. The place is crowded with all of those who received notes or even just came around news of them arriving. Some of them were shooed away, but authority has different levels of reach, and the power of a good gossip goes beyond that. 

Firmin approaches both of them with his hands clasped together, looking extremely stressed. "Monsieur, mademoiselle, not to be rude, merely stating facts, but you're not responsible for this particular segment of the performance -"

Okumura turns an icy smile at him. "My friend is responsible for the well-being of his fiancé, and we are both responsible for the funds that reach the theater in the first place. Not to be rude, evidently - since we are all stating facts."

Firmin goes deadly pale, and Goro has to bite back laughter. 

"Regardless of our views, my lady," Yusuke says, "we daren't refuse."

"Another murder would be a tragedy beyond what any of us can handle," Okumura agrees, taking the high chair behind the desk for herself casually, her skirt billowing  around her. 

Firmin and Andre exchange glances. "Not another chandelier," Andre whispers. 

Rubbing his face with his hand, he sighs pure exhaustion. "We received more of those notes our ghostly patron is so fond of. If I may -"

Yusuke defers with a tired wave. "You may."

" _ Fondest greetings to you all: some notes before rehearsal starts. Initially, a few remarks must be done in regards to the orchestra. We need another first bassoon - if you'd please, acquire a player that possesses some knowledge of  _ tone _. Aside from that, the third trombone has to go. The man could not be deafer. Whoever you pick to replace him will be an improvement, but, if I may suggest, preferably one who plays in tune _ ."

"I mean," Ann says quietly. "It's not like he's  _ wrong _ , per se."

Akira gives a bright little chuckle, quickly hidden away. 

Goro decides he might develop some appreciation for Ann, considering her ability to decipher the lack of musical ability from its existence - something the managers, apparently, hadn't mastered despite all their months in the head of the theater. 

"That is not the last of it, I assume. Our friend tends to be eloquent when giving out orders."

"Oh, there  _ is _ more," Andre says, and brings forth another note. " _ Vis a vis my opera, and in the same subject I started discussing in my previous message, some chorus members must be sacked. Some few gems amongst them do have something resembling a sense of pitch, however, so seek those out and keep them. Wisely, though, and after much deliberation, I've managed to assign a rather minor role to those who cannot act. _ " 

Ann laughs suddenly, and everyone turns to her. "What part of this is funny to you, signora?" the manager demands, and she waves him away, flushed red in the cheeks. 

"Oh, simply that now the size of my part makes sense," she answers. 

"There is a comment here about you:  _ Mademoiselle Ann must be taught to act; not her normal trick of strutting around the stage _ ."

She laughs again, and turns to Akira, grasping his hand, "Your Ghost reminds me of Shiho, they're both so  _ honest _ ."

Akira's smile is more delighted than it should be. "I know!"

"You must be rather happy yourself, monsieur Kurusu, if you're taking all of this so lightly," the police commissioner cuts in, voice sharp. Taking a closer look upon her, Goro can see she does resemble her sister - the same strangely crimson eyes, the same dignified way of carrying herself. She looks and sounds blunter, though, less precise, more immature. "From what I hear, you're the man of the hour."

Akira's eyes narrow, the picture of soft delight falling to reveal his sharp displeasure. Once again, Goro is slightly taken aback at how quickly he can shift between expressions; as ditzy as people seem to think he is, the surgical intelligence hiding in the slow tilt of his head and the drag of his tongue across his lips speak to a level of perception that most can hardly hope to have. Yusuke touches his shoulder gently, both reassuring and protective. 

"Let us not jump to conclusions," Okumura says in the most diplomatic manner possible. "It seems there are still a number of instructions to go through."

"Oh, dear God."

" _ Our pianist is very talented. I have nothing to state other than the utmost praise and an offering of my continued appreciation for his skill. I wish the rest of our orchestra had even half of his natural skill for music and tone. _ "

"Would you look at that, monsieur Shirogane," Akira purrs, chin propped on his hand. "To receive praise from him is no small feat. He's very demanding, a real perfectionist man."

Shirogane raises his eyes from his score, lowering his monocle and looking slightly bewildered. For the first time, Goro has undivided focus on his face, and he finds himself strangely taken aback by his delicate beauty. "Excuse me?"

"The Phantom of the Opera appreciates your skill."

Shirogane frowns. "Who does?"

"Let him be, Akira," Ann says, gesturing with her fan. "Monsieur is uninterested in gossip."

Andre clears his throat. "Moving on:  _ The only thing I can say in regards to the corps de ballet is that I wish the best of luck to Madame Niijima.  _

_ Instructions about my desired plans for the scenario of the opera are in a separate envelope with blueprints and sketches, and I request for it to be forwarded to the responsible manager, so that all may be done in haste and according to the proper preparations. _ "

Ann winces. "Ryuji won't be happy."

"There is more."

"There's  _ more _ ?"

" _ The curtain must be replaced. Upon inspection, the ends are frayed.  _

_ As for the costumes, a few observations:  _

_ The ballet costumes shall follow the color palette assigned below. No tutus and no accessories - the synchronizationsynchrony of the dancers suffers enough that I do not trust them with any sort of hand apparel (the presentation in The Magic Flute was nothing short of insulting).  _

_ As for our lead man, it would please me if we could have him in the costume I produced, to be found in the second rack in the appointed department. The measurements might be wrong, in which case I ask kindly for them to be fixed. _ "

Okumura clasps her hands together. "Oh, I did not know he had such skill!"

Yusuke nods, somberly. "Our friend has quite the number of capabilities, it would seem."

Akira and Yusuke exchange a strange look that Goro does not comprehend. There is an intimacy between the two of them that he didn't see before - Yusuke keeps a hand on the back of Akira's chair, and leans in to whisper in his ear, and Akira tilts his head towards the sound. 

"Is that the end of it?" Makoto inquires, to which the managers confirm. "Very well, so am I to assume he will be attending this...performance he wrote?" She turns to her sister for confirmation or denial, but Madame Niijima remains impassive. 

"I am not sure," Yusuke says. "I hear he was a loyal spectator up until the incident with the chandelier last year. I don't think he has been attending any performances since."

"He will come," Akira declares. 

"How can you tell?"

Akira's eyes are steel, silver. "He is a proud man. He'll come."

"He'll want to hear Akira sing," Yusuke murmurs, and something about the air of the room changes. 

"We have all been blind," Makoto states then. "The answer is staring us in the face. There is a way to ensnare this elusive ghost once and for all."

"We're listening."

"Do go on."

"We shall play his game, do as he pleases. However, we hold the ace - for as long as monsieur Kurusu sings, he'll be sure to show up, if I am to believe what I'm told."

Akira's face twists in what looks like regret. "And what exactly do you intend?"

"Hold the doors barred. Clear a path for my men, make sure they're armed." Makoto shrugs. "After that, I'm sure the act writes itself."

"Madness," Madam Niijima says immediately. 

"I'm not so sure," Firmin shoots back. "Not if it works."

"Then help us, dear sister, instead of warning us," Makoto says. "Unless you know something you have not shared…?"

"Believe me, I intend no ill will. But we have seen what he is capable of doing -"

"You desire for me to be the bait for him," Akira interrupts. "And I refuse."

"My fiancé will not wait as the perfect, helpless prey for a murderer."

"Either we catch him, or he kills again and again. We have no choice. As it is, we're dancing on the palm of his hand."

"He hears more than what you imagine," Niijima says warningly. "He sees everything. This is his Opera before it's ours."

"Let him hear it. He will not back down from a challenge. Proud men never do."

A cutting laughter, and all in the room turn to Akira. 

"Monsieur?" 

" _ Monsieur _ , you say," Akira drawls out, mean smile still in place. "What? Now you ask for my opinion? What about my pride? This is  _ my _ voice you require for this plan you've constructed. I am not a lifeless instrument, as some of you may think - you cannot just put your hands on me and play me to your liking. I am not a pretty doll handmade to follow orders. If I do not want to accept this plan, I will not."

"But - but  _ why _ ?"

"Oh, so now my reasons matter on the subject. Interesting, considering I'm the party with the most interest in the situation. Well, you did not want to hear me before, and you will not hear me now. I will not be forced into this. Whatever I do, I do out of my own will. I am tired of adapting to other people's wishes."

When he leaves the office, a heavy silence weighs. Goro himself is struck mindless. 

Ann moves to get up. "I will talk to him -"

Shirogane shakes his head, gently coaxes her back into sitting. "Do not."

"Monsieur Shirogane?"

"He is not without reason," he says, voice serious and soothing in its rational calm. "From what I can see, first and foremost, this case is about him. Let him be. He will reach his decision."

-

Following Akira back to his dressing room is easy, his steps carried by the lightness of familiarity. 

His angel looks beautiful today, as he does always - his dress is a soft shade of blue, small white flowers embroidered in the fabric, and pearl earrings frame his fine features - but he looks deadly serious in a way Goro rarely sees, every trace of mischievous curiosity erased to give place to firm decision. When he reaches the room, he pulls the chair from his vanity desk and sits down in front of the body-length mirror that used to be the one place where angel and phantom met, and says, "I'm exhausted."

From behind the mirror, Goro presses the tips of his fingers to the smooth surface, and bites his lip, swallowing back the myriad of apologies and resentment he keeps locked inside his heart. 

"They want to use me to reel you in," he continues, and he sounds so cold. So very cold. "They know what I mean to you, and they want to use that. And I cannot refuse. I want to -  _ God _ knows I want to. Not because I am afraid; but because I am tired. Is that all I am to them? A caged bird that can be forced into sounding pretty if he is pricked by a needle?"

Goro mouths,  _ you are wrong, you are wrong, I love you, you must know - _

Akira sighs. "I cannot refuse. Not in my position. I cannot deny that you are a murderer. I have no concrete evidence of your soul. I have no arguments for them. For all the power everyone on Earth seems to think I possess, I am but a singer. A singer that is so only because you taught him. I'm weak, and I'm helpless, and the only thing I can do is music, and whenever I make music, I create suffering. I will go on that stage, and wear the dress you handmade for me, and I will sing the songs you wrote, and you will come watch me because you're as weak a man as I am, and they will capture you and kill you. And I will have to bear witness to that, knowing that I was not able to help you. Knowing that I was played like a puppet on strings to hurt someone I care so much about." 

The surprise that courses through Goro at the declaration of care drives him hopelessly breathless. 

Before he can figure out how to react, Yusuke arrives in a flurry of confusion and concern. "Akira, my love, what are you doing? Why did you leave?"

"Talking to the Phantom of the Opera," he answers, sardonic, drawing out the title. "He might be the one person here who listens to what I say." 

Yusuke looks with something akin to fear and wonder around the room. "Is - he here?"

"He's always here. He's everywhere I go. He's always listening."

"Madame Niijima says he left a note for you."

Akira scoffs prettily. "So I heard. I keep hearing things about me. It's been one year where all I hear everywhere is my name."

"Would you like for me to read it?"

A wave. "Go ahead."

Yusuke takes a small piece of paper in hands. Goro feels physically sick. 

" _ As for monsieur Akira Kurusu, no doubt he'll be excellent. This opera was made for him. _ "

Akira sighs again, and leans back on the chair he's sitting. Yusuke puts a hand on his shoulder soothingly - Akira takes it, and caresses his knuckles. "I'm exhausted, dear," he confesses, again. 

"The feeling of being used is one I am familiar with, and one I wish you did not have to go through. For most of my life, I was manipulated for my art, abused and wounded and trampled on, and that kind of scar does not go away."

"Life has not been kind on either of my boys, it seems." Akira continues to hold his hand, and gazes distantly at the mirror, seemingly watching something beyond his reflection. The tender possessiveness in his voice makes Goro shiver. "Madame Niijima told me about him. About the parts that she knows."

"And?"

"It's dreadful. Beyond words." Goro thinks he should leave for this, thinks he should spare himself the suffering of hearing about his life in the words of the last person he ever desired to hear them from - but he feels unable to move, unable to do anything aside from hearing. "There was a travelling fair, years ago, in the city. Oh, Yusuke, how cruel people are. She found him there, in a cage. A scholar, she said. A genius, an architect, an inventor. A musician. With a supernaturally beautiful voice." 

Goro laughs silently, strangely amidst his agony. He remembers his mother:  _ your voice is too beautiful to be human.  _ He remembers people saying he must have met the devil and exchanged his soul and his beauty for his voice - when his voice has always been the single unsullied thing in his life. 

"A divine voice," Akira says, "and a deformed face. She couldn't say if it's from birth, or deliberately caused. Scars running down all the way to his wrist. He would be exposed as a freak of nature, and people whipped him, and beat him, and humiliated him. She says she had no idea how he survived - and neither do I."

"He escaped?"

"It was said he died. In truth, he killed his way out, which I cannot fault. If anything, I praise his courage. He got his hands on something sharp, and slashed his captor's throat. Madame Niijima found him shivering and covered in blood, unable to move, clinging to a music box."

"Good heavens," Yusuke murmurs, sounding deeply pained. "I wouldn't have - I couldn't have imagined. He has been alone since?"

"Since his childhood, I believe. She said he designed the underground of this Opera himself, and made a house to live in. The place I visited. And he lives there by himself."

"That must be the reason why - he and you -"

Akira shakes his head. "Not just that. You cannot blame love on suffering. Some things are meant to be. I believe I was meant to meet him, as we both were meant to meet."

They settle in the silence for a while. In Goro's mind, there is nothing but painful memories and the sting of the whip on his back and the repetitive lullaby of the first song he ever knew. 

"Will you sing?" Yusuke asks. "At this point, I don't believe you should. No human being can last through as much suffering as this man has. Adding more to that would be the utmost cruelty."

"I will sing. But for my own reasons."

"Anything I can do to assist you?"

"When it's time..."

"When it's time?" 

"Just trust me."

Yusuke kisses his wedding ring feverishly. "With my life."

-

  
  


He can see the moment Akira realizes who's singing to him. 

It's a delicate movement, immediate and clear - Akira shifts, and the dress flutters around his ankles, and his entire body is turned towards Goro. It's unexpected, and entrancing. Akira walks up to him, steps light and slow, and Goro finds himself unable to move, hiding behind the flimsy barrier of the dark cloak covering his face, breathing hard into the fabric. His sight is impaired, both by his blind eye and the darkness he's using to shield himself, but he can see the dip of Akira's collarbones, exposed by the low collar of his clothes; he can see the rise and fall of his breathing, his waist lined by the corset, the flowers decorating the dark curls of his hair. Akira sings, and sings, and suddenly they are close, close enough that Goro can feel the warmth of a body against his own. 

He can hear the notes leaving his own mouth, but his attention is enclosed by the way Akira tilts his head back, baring his throat and gently swaying his hips. When he slides his hands up from the line of his skirt to the column of his neck, Goro's gaze follows hungrily, as he yearns for something he cannot put words to. He cannot bring himself to touch, his hands shaking and his fingers fidgeting; but as he holds the golden chalice for Akira to take, there are fingers brushing against his, and Akira's smirking, red lips slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering, black eyes devouring him. He moves his head to the side for a moment, and Goro helplessly reaches for him, not daring to even skim the angle of his jaw - but the gesture is enough, and Akira is looking back at him, and Goro feels a shiver course through him. He is powerless against this, this is not a challenge he can match. If Akira breathes too hard, he'll fold, he'll collapse, he'll die. His heart hammers inside his chest nearly painfully. 

Akira takes an invisible sip of the inexistent wine, and wipes the corner of his mouth with a wide gesture - his arm is bare, the curve of his wrist delicate, and when Goro takes it between his fingers, dizzy with the urge to do something, anything to hold this beauty against him, Akira is turning towards him immediately, the sharp want in his eyes so intense it makes Goro light-headed. 

They walk back, in a dance, and Akira snatches his arm away from his hold spins away from him, skirts fluttering. The divine glow of his smirk is playful, almost cat-like, as he beckons him silently, and Goro follows, because he cannot bring himself to do anything else. Akira sits down on the wooden bench, legs spread, and he -  _ moves _ . Arching his back and leaning forward, and seduction is dripping like poison from between his perfect white teeth. Goro has never wanted something so bad in his entire life; was unaware he was able to desire anything with such desperate fervor. He reaches unthinkingly to touch Akira's waist, and Akira entwines their fingers together. 

He can feel the hard, smooth surface of his engagement ring. Idly, he thinks he should be angry, he thinks he should be enraged - but his mind is molten with this moment, with the way Akira rests his head on his shoulder and brings him closer, and he wonders, dreamily, if Yusuke is watching. 

It's safe to assume he is, and Goro pictures it: that handsome man, with his perfect clothes and piercing gaze, watching the two of them with a binocular. What is he thinking, Goro wonders. Is he gripping the fabric of his trousers, is he gritting his teeth. This feels impossible, feels like it should not be happening. Does Yusuke hate him for holding his fiancé like this, for sharing a stage with him, for touching the exposed line of his collarbone with his fingertip and breathing in his hair. Is Yusuke  _ enjoying  _ this. Is he seeing Akira's dangerous smile and Goro's helplessly shaking hands, and thinking about how he wants to be with them, how he wants to touch. 

Feverishly, without thinking, he takes his own signet ring from his finger and puts it on Akira's, on top of Yusuke's engagement band - and Akira's smirk drops, and suddenly it's not a game anymore, it's not a dance and it's not a stage, and his eyes are tearing through Goro's mind, and he says,  _ do it _ , with nothing but the movement of his crimson lips. 

Goro steals him away to the lair. Akira runs as fast as he does. 

-

When they reach the dark basement that has been Goro's home for years, Akira's socks are wet from dashing past the border of the lake, and his hair is a mess, and he's much steadier on his feet than Goro could ever dream of being. For his own part, he's breathing hard, his head spinning; he near-collapses, and has to hold himself up on a close pillar. He swallows dry, and touches a hand to his chest, his palm trapping his rapid-fire hummingbird heartbeat. He cannot inhale properly through the black hood still covering his face and body, but he doesn't dare to remove it. Somewhere inside his chaotic thoughts, something tells him that if he blinks his sole functioning eye up to the dim light of the candles, if he brings himself to look at Akira without the barrier that is as dull as it is protective, he might not be able to sustain it. 

But there is power in the world that goes beyond his control - Akira's steps are quick and firm as they approach him, and then there's a delicate hand fitting to the hem of the hood, and a fast movement, and then: light, weak but undeniable, and the cold biting air of night on the unmasked side of his face. It startles him, badly, and he pushes back, air leaving his lungs mercilessly. He hasn't been able to take a proper breath since he stepped on stage, it seems. 

Akira holds up his hand, revealing the curve of the ring Goro put on his finger. "What is the meaning of this," he asks, eyes like divine fire. "What were you intending?"

Goro knows he's going to stutter if he responds, so he doesn't. He doesn't know what he was intending. The red lipstick on Akira's mouth is slightly smudged, and Goro cannot stop looking at it, hopelessly entranced. 

"You crash a chandelier and kill a man, vanish for six months, reappear with an entire opera for me to sing, put a ring on my finger in front of an audience, and you believe I'll simply allow you to do as you please?" Akira's lips are pursed in determination. It's so impossibly charming Goro thinks he might faint. He feels dangerously close to doing so already. 

"I - did not - I never  _ asked _ -" he stammers, and hates himself for it. 

"Oh, you asked. You asked time and time again, Goro. You just never thought I'd  _ respond _ . Well, I have responded. Now, answer my question."

Goro turns his back to him, touches the smooth edges of his mask in a search for familiarity, a fruitless attempt to soothe his own frayed nerves. He cannot think if he continues to look at Akira. It would be easier if he were allowed to hide, if he could have Akira back on the surface and himself down here, where he could be alone. 

"Hello, Yusuke," Akira says suddenly, and the mention of that name courses pure icy dread through Goro's spine. 

"What in the world is  _ he _ doing here?" Goro asks between teeth gritted so hard his jaw aches all the way up to his temples. 

"Madame Niijima told me you would never hurt him," Yusuke declares, sounding noble and determined and strong, a man certain of every action he takes. "I'm here to see if she was correct in her assumption."

Akira shakes his head, still looking straight at Goro. Flowers fall from his hair, petals pool at his feet. "He would never. He's softer than he himself realizes, I'd wager."

Goro turns to face the new arrival, and Yusuke's eyes widen. 

"Oh," he says, and his expression melts. "You are…  _ lovely _ ."

Something about it - the breathless sincerity in his voice, the absolute appreciation in his gaze, the soft part of his lips, the choice of words. Yusuke takes a step forward, seemingly enraptured, akin to someone being faced with a thing of extreme beauty, a thing that inspires fascination. He looks strangely enamored, an artist basking in a favorite artpiece.  _ Lovely _ , he said, implying -  _ stating - _ that Goro was handmade to be loved, traced with the intention of being adored. The fact that it is the first time anyone aside from Akira has glanced upon his features and reacted with this sort of - honest, innocent pleasure, hits a chord in Goro's heart, makes his entire soul shiver like a song being brought to life. For a moment, he thrives in it, his words coming up short in his throat, as he finds himself unable to respond, unable to process anything in his mind aside from clear, sharp joy, something infantile in how earnest it is. For a cursed moment, he  _ believes  _ in what Yusuke has so immediately proclaimed; and then he remembers himself, and the memories of his life come rushing back like blood to a pierced artery, an open, deadly wound, and indignation replaces his elation, rage shadows his thoughtless elation. 

"Is this some sort of joke?" Goro demands, furious. "Is that why both of you came here? To cruelly mock me with lies and false praise?"

Yusuke takes a small step back in shock, as if he was genuinely not expecting such a reaction. "Not at all -" he starts, badly startled by the accusation, appearing wounded, almost. "That was - not my intention, I -"

Goro's laugh is loud and mocking, breaking apart in the middle as if someone has taken a knife to the sound and slashed it open. " _ Lovely _ ?" The anger tearing through him is enough that, for a moment, he's not  _ thinking _ \- he raises his hand feverishly, and rips his mask off his face, and grins with the sick satisfaction of a man who has won a challenge, even if it was on his own suffering. " _ Lovely _ ? What a tale! Surely you must be blinder than myself! I'm not as naive as you may think I am, monsieur. I'm certainly not as weak to such tasteless fallacies. Do not speak of what you don't know. Of what you have not  _ seen _ ."

"I have seen," Akira says, and the certainty in his tone makes Goro stop short in his enraged mania. "Now and before, I've seen. And I still chose to come here."

The affirmation is impossible to comprehend, impossible to even wrap his thoughts around. " _ Why _ ?" he demands, unable to say anything else. 

"Allow me to give you the question back: why the ring, Goro?"

It is a repetition of the first thing Akira asked of him when they arrived, and Goro does not have an answer for it any more than he had before. This is torture at its finest. The whipping at the travelling fair, the starvation and the hunger and the cold, the humiliation and the things he was called, the pure agony of loneliness and hopeless misery, the terror when he committed his first murder, the warmth of blood on his hands and the despair that overcame him at witnessing his captor wetly gasp his last breath; sitting curled up in a dark corner, arms wrapped around himself and the rough fabric of the bag covering his face, alone and scared and a murderer, thoughts incoherent and flashing; nothing of that compares to the suffering he goes through at the godlike glow in Akira's dark eyes as he stares at him. What he went through, he recognized as despair, he knew it to be helpless, he knew it to be close to death - this gives him the agony of hope, of desire. How badly he wants to say what he meant in that one moment when he dared to take Akira's hand in his and slide in the signet ring he has carried for so long. How insanely he wants to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness and declare his undying love, and how painful it is that he dares, once more, to believe that, because Akira is here, because he listened to his quick steps as they ran to the lair together, because there was not a single indication of struggle or unwillingness, that he can hope for something different from the judgment and the loneliness and the punishment he has learned to expect from everything in his life. 

Goro Akechi has been in living hell and crawled out of it with his bare hands. But this - this, he cannot handle. 

He breathes once. Twice. Tries to brace himself for shattering his own dreams once more - and hates himself for daring to hope, being who he is, what he is. People like him don't have hopes. He can go back to what it was. He can return to his shadows and lick his wounds. Akira is free to go, as he has always been. Free to go back to the surface and daylight and his to-be-husband. They will go on walks together and see the green leaves of the trees and the shimmering surface of water underneath summer sky; the greediest fantasy Goro ever allowed himself to nurse, and that he smashes under his shoe once more. 

"Give me back the ring, then," he says, closing his eyes and extending his hand. He waits for the weight of the small piece on his palm, imagines his fingers wrapping around it and tucking it back inside his pocket. He'll throw it in the water when he's alone again, when he's inevitably left once more, so that nothing else carries the memory of Akira. His angel is already everywhere - in his mind and his song and his heart, on the invisible tracing of his steps on the ground, on the dried petals. Whatever he can destroy, whatever he can bear to, he will. He sighs and opens his eyes and decides he'll indulge in one last glance at Akira. 

Akira cradles his hand close to his chest, almost protectively, and Goro tilts his head to the side, confused. "No," he says, and the shock hits like a bullet to his guts. It's a second where he doesn't know what Akira is denying, what he's refusing. "The ring is not the issue. The issue is - what do you want, Goro? What are you asking for? I need to hear it from you. I cannot - I  _ will not _ play any longer."

He grits his teeth. This again, this one question he cannot answer. It feels like a knife carving his heart apart. He wishes Akira would take the killing shot instead of torturing him as such. "I do not know." 

There are many things Goro Akechi wants, and he cannot have a single one of them. 

He can hear soft footsteps nearing him, but he dares not look. 

A gentle hand wraps around his wrist, and entwines their fingers together. 

"Is this what you want?" Akira asks, and Goro inhales a sharp, desperate breath, and cannot answer for the life of him. Every single thought leaves his head; all he knows is the warmth trapped on his palm, as if he is touching a star, a miracle blooming before his eyes. He still does not look up. 

"Oh, dear God," Yusuke breathes out, something strangely akin to an epiphany in his voice, "you really love him. I did not know - I knew, but I did not  _ understand _ -"

Akira's chuckle is soft. He cups Goro's unscarred cheek and tilts his head up, and gazes directly in his eyes. There is nothing in his expression that speaks of judgment, or disgust or hatred - he looks  _ tender _ . "Yes. He really loves me."

It's a simple fact, a small sentence, and yet it sings to the whole of Goro's existence, a music tracing all the parts that have ever mattered, that have ever made his heart whole. 

Goro is crying before he realizes it. 

He's sobbing, painfully, like a lost child, and the tears hurt his skin, and he can feel the press of Akira's rings against his cheek, solid and real. "It hurts," he whispers, confesses in a way he has never confessed anything before in his life, not since he was five years old and wailing at the demonic fire licking his body, and he sounds small, and he feels small, and so young, and so  _ scared _ . "It hurts."

"Your face?" Akira asks gently. Goro nods, once. 

Akira begins to lower his hand, but Goro wraps his fingers around his wrist to stop him. "It is fine," he murmurs. "I'm accustomed to hurting. And I believe I would endure a lot more to have your presence."

"You have my presence," Akira says. "I am not leaving."

  
"Please don't. I don't think I would survive your departure."

Akira looks at something over Goro's shoulder, and smiles. "Be gentle, dear," he says, and Yusuke answers, "I will," and there's a hand landing on Goro's hair, and then sliding down to his nape, caressing the skin above his collar. The tenderness of the touch is almost heartbreaking, and Goro lowers his head instinctively, seeking more of this affection that he hasn’t known for as long as he’s been alive. 

"What does this mean?" he asks. He dares not assume. 

Akira kisses him. 

For a long second, everything Goro registers is pure shock. The warm press of lips against his own, Akira's breath touching his face, hands gripping at his shoulders and pulling him - he still hasn't closed his eyes, hasn't moved, hasn't taken a single breath, and he falls forward in helpless reaction to the firm certainty of the body against his. He can see Akira's long, delicate eyelashes fluttering, and distantly he registers the dull ache that comes whenever anything touches the scars he bears in his features, and the constant, slow drag of Yusuke's thumb on his nape, and he thinks he should do something, should kiss back, should shut his eyes at the very least - but he's terrified that if he does, this will become too much for him to bear, or that it'll leave him. If he closes his eyes, he might solidify this as the dream he's so scared it will be. His hands are shaking as he lifts them up, and gently places them on the waist of Akira's dress, and that is enough to draw a gasp out of him, as he realizes how very real this is, how he can feel the quick, sharp rhythm of Akira's heartbeat pressed tight to his own and the softness of Akira's skin as arms wrap around his neck and pull him closer still; and then those lips move, and Akira lets out a small, almost wounded noise, and it sounds so human, so impossibly  _ perfect _ , a lone note of an unknown song escaping from his throat. Goro's own eyelids fall closed, and something akin to a sob leaves his mouth, and Akira parts their lips and presses their foreheads together. 

Akira's red lipstick is even more smudged, and Goro knows why; he can taste it on top of his tongue, a strange, stale, addicting taste. The knowledge seems too much for him to handle. He has never felt desire so tangible in his hands. Love threatens to overcome him, to tear his heart to pieces, melt his blood into a pool of golden emotion, to remake him into something else entirely, something that adores and yearns and can be loved  _ back _ . 

"Exquisite," Akira whispers, and his lips brush against Goro's, and they are kissing again. 

  
  


-

When the other people who dwell on the surface find the underground lair where the Phantom of the Opera made his home of so many years, where Akira Kurusu and Yusuke Kitagawa ran off to only to never be seen again, this is what they find:

Dried wax from what once were candles. 

Manuscripts of unfinished songs and endless poems. 

Needles and threads and fabric. 

Books, of all subjects, in various languages. 

A small bed, with old blankets. 

A dark cloak. 

Under a dark cloak, a white half-mask, unspeaking and unseeing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is not a single person in my life who did not hear about me writing Phantom AU. 
> 
> i bitched about it for approximately four weeks on my discord, on my twitter, on my groupchats with my irl friends who have never played a single second of Persona 5. this was not the first idea i had for the Goro Big Bang - as soon as it came to mind, after an impromptu conversation with k on the discord server, i was terrified. Phantom of the Opera means... a lot to me. an ungodly amount of a lot. i first listened to the musical when i was 12. it has a depth of feeling and emotion that i was absolutely sure i would never be able to convey in writing. but the idea wouldn't leave me alone, and i grit my teeth and braced myself and decided i would manage to write this story or die trying. 
> 
> i rewatched the 25th anniversary Broadway musical so many times i memorized the lyrics to Notes. _Notes_ , everybody. i listened to the Spotify album every second of my day. i changed the ending at least five times. i read passages of the novel in french. guys, i almost listened to Love Never Dies. those were terrifying days. 
> 
> and, my god, did i complain about it. it was painful and it was hard and i thought about quitting more times than i listened to Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again, which is one hell of a lot. 
> 
> i wrote the story. 
> 
> and, goddamn, am i proud of it. 
> 
> thank you so much to k, first and foremost. this AU would quite literally not exist without you and your patience and all your advice. this belongs as much to you as it does to me. thank you to grass, who provided emotional support during my bitching. thank you to the entire Goro Big Bang server for everything during this event. it was - a delight. sunlight in a handful of very grey days.


End file.
